The Caribbean Job

by Vince Milam

  “Either of those in the Caribbean?”

  “Puffers.”

  “All right. A local poison. Instant death. Got it.”

  A towel wrapped around my waist, I stretched out a few kinks. Recent wounds barked back.

  “Not so fast. You haven’t heard the cool part.”

  “Not sure there’s a cool part.”

  “Yeah there is. Oh, yeah. This tetrodotoxin was altered in a high-end lab. The result creates a much more rapid reaction. Instant adios.”

  “So a pro did it. Or supplied it. All right.”

  “Yeah, maybe. It would have to be one hell of a pro. The only other time you see this stuff is with government hitters.”

  Nope and no way. Not headed down that rabbit hole. The toxicologist clearly wanted to speculate about James Bond stuff. No siree, this was isolated to a Caribbean hit based on greed or anger or a business deal gone bad.

  “Let’s stick with pro.”

  “You can bury the ostrich head, but I’m telling you. CIA, Mossad, FSB, MI6, MSS—the usual cast.”

  Nope. Not this time. Clandestine concerns wouldn’t enter this engagement.

  “Okay. Got it. Thanks.”

  “No problem. It’s cool stuff. I mean, I don’t run across exotic toxins often. The point is, you’ll want to keep your head low.”

  “A regular practice, but thanks.” I signed off.

  Bettencourt was murdered by a hired hitter. That took money and contacts. Elizabeth Bettencourt owned the former, but I couldn’t see her with the contacts. It opened the door for several possibilities. A soured business deal or a simple whack job tied to the Abaco trust fund Tig mentioned. But a high-end toxin was rare, so a real pro had his or her hand in the mix.

  An outside hitter wouldn’t deliver the lethal injection during the dead of night. Too risky, given the several bodies draped across the bed and the crowd of kids living there. So the poison was delivered by someone at rancho pedophilia. A proxy killer. Tig shared the top of the list along with the other “she’s gone” bed partner.

  It would go in the Global Resolutions report. Someone else could figure it out. Meanwhile I would capture information on part two of the puzzle from Melinda Whitmore. She was too far from the Caribbean for grave hitter concerns. Unless both Bettencourt and Geoffrey Whitmore held joint business dealings in conflict with major players. Major players who used murder as part of their business model. In which case Long Island no longer presented benign turf.

  But I held no hyper-alert moments. This was the Hamptons. Playground of New York wealthy. Old, old money. Toss in a few celebrities for added spice at the yacht club parties. Hardly shoot-‘em-up central. Besides, my vehicle held enough armament for any local threats.

  A glorious day dawned, and I dropped thoughts of toxins, murders, hit men, and dark trailing boats. Spent the morning headed toward the Hamptons, passing sweet beaches, farms, and quaint tourist villages. Each village boasted an art scene, albeit a bit contrived. Handsome folks walked, meandered into shops, and sat at outdoor cafes. High-end sunglasses were aplenty. I enjoyed the air, the feel, and spent an hour at an outdoor table, back against the bistro’s exterior wall taking it in. Pleasant and fine and cause for consideration that this contract—other than the Abaco and Nassau ugliness—could be all right. Yessir.

  Estates. Mercy, were there estates. Hedges or expensive faux-rustic fences or both surrounded the individual kingdoms. Each estate was prepped and manicured. Summer had arrived and the Hamptons were in full social swing. Folks poured from the city for the Season. Then back to New York for the fall and maybe later a Hawaii or Caribbean estate, avoiding the bitter winter winds. Make the social loop, season dependent, and do it again, year after year.

  The old money lifestyle was well and good for them, but you couldn’t help wonder what anchored their lives. What would they reflect upon once old age hit, the grim reaper knocking? What thoughts and remembrances would they relish? Parties, soirées, cocktails with their fellow Big Money travelers at charity functions where writing a large check salved a few pangs but failed to fulfill? I’d never know. But listed high on their positive side—they didn’t mess with Case Lee. And I reciprocated. Live and let live, baby.

  I’d sussed the Whitmore estate on Google Earth. Twelve acres, nestled against an Atlantic Ocean inlet. A massive house, pool, and a couple of ponds—situated between other similar abodes. But satellite views fail to do the ground-level experience justice.

  Approaching the estate I passed a parked sedan, the male occupant staring at a map. Who looked at maps with a navigation-enabled cell phone handy? But the guy’s head remained down, studious, lost among the wandering estates. A UPS truck exited an estate driveway, took the usual right turn, and ground down the road. A breeze blew, my windows down, the air crisp and salty. I’d donned slacks and a light linen sports coat. Appropriate attire for a business visit. And appropriate attire for hiding the Glock-filled waistband holster.

  The intercom at the Whitmore’s gated entrance was reachable from the car window. I pressed the button, a voice enquired, and the gate swung open for Jack Tilly with the Providence Insurance Company.

  The entrance road was plain vanilla concrete, which wouldn’t do. So the builders set cross-patterned bricks along the narrow road’s shoulders. A sea of manicured lawn, well fertilized and dark emerald green. Somewhere, a riding lawn mower fleet sat waiting for a call to action. At tasteful lawn intervals were architected landscape islands. Trees, shrubs, flowers. I was a bit of a sucker for landscapes, and the lawn islands were photo-capture worthy.

  The mansion was over twenty thousand square feet. Single level, it ate a substantial chunk of real estate. But the building architects had performed an amazing job—the structure invited rather than intimidated. A beach house. One helluva beach house.

  A housekeeper answered the front door, smiled, and stepped aside. Behind her, a well-dressed and officious young woman approached, hand extended.

  “Mr. Tilley. Sally Richards. Mrs. Whitmore’s secretary.”

  I smiled and nodded a “Hi” as we shook.

  Sally cut right to the chase.

  “Mrs. Whitmore is terribly busy. I would hope you will respect her time.”

  “Of course.”

  “And respectful of the terrible loss she recently suffered.”

  “An unfortunate aspect of my job, Ms. Richards. Dealing with the bereaved. I assure you, my unbounded empathy.” Delivered with an understanding nod, grim, heartfelt.

  I cleared the Sally Richards litmus test, and she signaled me to follow. We weaved through the house toward the back ocean-view rooms. White. White walls, white ceilings, white comfortable furniture. Light blonde hardwood floors and subtle patterned flat-weave rugs. Fresh cut flowers rose from massive vases, tasteful artwork placed at irregular intervals. The interior decorators pulled off an impressive feat. The vast interior space did, for a fact, possess a weekend beach house look and feel. Comfortable and inviting. Maybe not old shoe comfortable—we were talking Fifth Avenue footwear—but neither daunting nor off-putting. Damn impressive.

  Melinda Whitmore rose from a cushioned wicker chair, one of many arranged across a playing-field sized covered back porch. Tables and chairs placed as unique sitting areas created a collection of lounging rooms across the vast open space. More fresh cut flowers, more white, more old money covered with a patina of our simple little beach house. It brought a smile—craftsmanship in the interior decorating field, done this well, deserved it.

  “I hope I interpret the smile correctly, Mr. Tilly.” She approached with her own smile and hand extended. “You appreciate my little abode.”

  “Spot on, ma’am. Well done you and your decorator.”

  “Melinda. Please. And may I address you as Jack? Or do your friends use another moniker?”

  Mid-forties, lissome, and comfortable in her own skin. Slacks, silk blouse, her styled hair perfect. And a real smile, genuine. A striking woman.

  “Jack i
s fine. And first and foremost, my sincere sympathies for your loss.”

  She nodded toward Sally who turned and clacked away on the hardwoods. “I’m well past that, Jack. Let’s not dwell on my feelings.”

  She extended a hand and offered a nearby chair. A small glass-topped table sat between us.

  “What may I provide you in the way of something to drink?” She signaled into the large interior room as she sat. Another housekeeper appeared. “And please don’t refuse the offer. Let’s forego the requisite sense of manners and business protocol.”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” I placed a Providence Insurance Company business card within easy reach in case she wished to peruse my authenticity.

  She delivered a fine semblance of a controlled Barnard College laugh, light and lilting. “I just reviewed my stance on the matter. A position clearly falling on deaf ears. Now once again, a chilled beverage? Ice tea? Beer? Cocktail?”

  “A beer sounds great. Thank you.” Delivered with my own genuine smile.

  “Lager, pilsner, or stout?”

  The offer of a stylistic beer selection at a private domicile was a first.

  “Lager, please.”

  She nodded at the housekeeper and added, “I will join Mr. Tilly. An afternoon beer. It does sounds marvelous.”

  Returning her attention to me, she asked, “Now, how may I help you, Jack?”

  Melinda orchestrated with a firm velvet-covered hand, all class and appeal and comfort. I was sucked in and didn’t mind it one little bit.

  Chapter 7

  Melinda waited with a pleasant smile and upright posture.

  “A bit of a painful endeavor, I’m afraid. May I ask a few questions about your late husband?”

  “We’ve addressed the emotional aspect. I’m well past any pain. Please ask away.”

  I did. “I understand your husband drowned in the pool.”

  “Geoffrey often swam. It was a component of his fitness regimen.”

  “At night.”

  “Yes. He would often do so prior to retiring for the evening.”

  “Anyone else here that night?”

  “I’m afraid not. I was in the city. A function, with my attendance required. And we have no overnight staff.”

  “Who found him?”

  “Poor Sally. Early the next morning. It was terribly traumatic for her, without doubt. The local constabulary were immediately engaged of course.”

  “Was your husband in good health? I mean, any illness or heart issues that might lead to his death?”

  “He was seventy-three, Jack. By no means a young man such as yourself.” She locked hands over a crossed-leg knee. Her off-white slacks held tight creases. Tiny fine lines crinkled with interest at the edges of her eyes.

  The housekeeper entered and placed two tall lager beer glasses between us. The liquid bubbled light gold, the soft foam head perfect. Man, I could get into this lifestyle.

  As the housekeeper slipped away, Melinda continued. “In lieu of your standard litany of questions, may I suggest covering background? The complete picture as it were. A rather mundane picture I’m afraid, but it may help settle whatever angst your company maintains over Geoffrey’s insurance policy. Then we may all move on.”

  “That would be great. Thanks.” The beer was excellent. The swimming pool and expansive lawn lent an air of summer tranquility. The lawn ended at a short wrought iron and brick fence adjoining the beach. The Atlantic cast easy waves onto the shore, and the interior view across the small table showed better than fine. The lone board member of Case Lee Inc. voted a hearty aye for this new and improved business model.

  “This was Geoffrey’s third marriage. My second. We both came from old lines of industrial wealth. Beginning in the 1800s.” She sipped her beer and used a folded linen napkin to pat the remnant foam from her upper lip. “I suppose it’s familiarity that drives such marriages. It is the same for our circle of friends. You see, money isn’t an issue for either party.”

  “You married inside your tribe. Nothing new there.”

  She smiled and cocked her head. “How well put. Our tribe.”

  Melinda laid the we-were-both-rich card, dismissing potential motive for wishing hubby dead. Fair enough. As far as I knew, he’d died in a swimming accident. The police report and autopsy showed no signs of murder. But I did share a small parcel of Jules’s jaundiced worldview and wouldn’t put anything past business activities in the rarified air of multi-billion dollar deals. And I held no illusion of crime-solving acumen if one was committed. But besides determining connectivity between the two dead men, part of my job was to ascertain the simple matter of natural vs. inflicted death. I did know a bit about that.

  “And perhaps tribal familiarity bred contempt,” she continued. “Geoffrey became bored with our relationship. But at his age, I didn’t fear the muss of closet mistresses.”

  I nodded and appreciated the candor. I hadn’t asked for this level of personal detail and sat there unclear of the purpose. Meanwhile, I couldn’t let go of the guy drowning in his own pool. It wasn’t that large a pool, and he could have made one of the sides without much effort.

  Melinda appeared contemplative while delivering an unblinking stare. I didn’t have the foggiest notion where her thoughts rambled. Lots of options there, but I wanted to keep the train on the tracks.

  “Do you folks own a dog?”

  Head cocked, she raised an eyebrow.

  “What a peculiar question.”

  “I know. Sorry. Just capturing the situation so we can push the policy through.”

  Situational awareness. Hammered into us during Delta Force training. Weather, flora, fauna. Cultural attributes, individual behavioral tendencies. I already knew the weather the night Geoffrey died. A light summer rain, quarter moon, minimal wind.

  “I’m afraid we don’t own a dog. Or cats. Or ferrets, snakes, or parakeets.” She chuckled and took another sip of beer. Man she was the whole package. Alluring as hell. “Now tell me about Jack Tilly. A touch of quid pro quo if you don’t mind.” She bent forward and patted my leg.

  Well, Melinda Whitmore, not a lot to tell. Live on an old wooden boat, plying the Intracoastal Waterway. The Ditch. So no home address. And no cocktail parties, charity fundraisers, or yacht clubs. And as gorgeous as I find you, there’s this little matter of a bounty on my head which you’d find a tad off-putting. The whole people trying to kill me and collect thing.

  “Live in Omaha. Single. Like golf and reading. Pretty boring stuff.”

  “Now why in the world are you single? From where I sit there is absolutely no excuse for such a situation.”

  She took another sip and scoped me stem to stern, aware I watched her perusal.

  “Maybe I’m too boring. Don’t know.”

  “No. No, there’s something else behind those eyes. A glimmer of wildness. Do you have a wild side, Jack?”

  Only when I’m forced to kill people, Melinda. Things get pretty wild then.

  “Nope. Sorry. Plain vanilla, I’m afraid.”

  “Hmm.” She didn’t buy it, but left backgrounds and proclivities alone.

  “Anyone your late husband might consider an enemy? Anyone who would wish him harm?”

  “Not unless you consider spats with other board members at the yacht club. The latest was something about the harbor master. Hardly a death struggle.” She laughed again and those ice-blue eyes bore into mine with serious connectivity.

  Sally approached, her flats padding across the interior room hardwoods. She stopped at the porch opening. “No offense Mr. Tilly, but there is a schedule Mrs. Whitmore must adhere to today.”

  “A few more minutes,” Melinda said.

  Sally retreated. I drained the beer.

  “Did your husband maintain a study? A place where he conducted business?”

  She took a final delicate swallow of her brew, patted her lips again, and slid upright. A wry smile and bright eyes accompanied, “He did. It’s on the other side of the hous
e. Would you care to escort me there?”

  We drifted away from the professional realm and into the personal with upper crust style. Nothing blatant or overt but signals and signs aplenty. Even for a social idiot like me.

  “Love to.” I regretted the wording and tacked on a follow-up. “If it’s not too much of an inconvenience. A little final due diligence. Then out of your hair.”

  “It is hardly an inconvenience, Jack.”

  She locked an arm with mine and led us indoors. A social gesture, full of bonhomie and familiarity and something else. Oh man.

  We passed Sally near the main entrance hall and headed for the mansion’s private quarters.

  “Sally, Mr. Tilly wishes to inspect Geoffrey’s study. Please don’t disturb us.”

  “The Bryce-Coddington affair starts early, ma’am.”

  “As I’m well aware. Arrange for hair and makeup in an hour, please.” She continued directing me down a wide, white hallway. More flat-weave patterned rugs, more comfortable hallway furniture, more masses of cut flowers filling basket-sized vases. “And please don’t disturb me until then,” she added over her shoulder. Sally didn’t reply.

  Chapter 8

  Whitmore’s study abandoned the beach house look. It held subdued light due to dark paneling. I rubbed a hand across the soft leather of a wingback chair with matching ottoman. A massive desk built from old timber filled one side of the room. Odds high an old sailing ship’s timber. This was old-school décor. Paintings of fox hunting scenes, the dogs and horses and gentlemen riders anticipating a rousing day afield. And paintings of stormy seas with tossed sailing ships battling the elements. There was a large stone fireplace, logs arranged and ready for the match.

  “Nice study.”

  “I find it rather stuffy. But this was Geoffrey’s room. This, and his own bedroom.”

  I wasn’t walking the Geoffrey’s own bedroom trail so I sidled over to the desktop. Mont Blanc pens were left in casual order, a few papers, a glass-bottled three-mast schooner. And a folded map.

  The map opened to a detailed topographic representation of Costa Rica and Panama. With a hand-drawn line in bright felt-tip marker from coast-to-coast across Costa Rica. Bingo. Whitmore and Bettencourt held an interest in Central America business. Whether I could hitch their deaths to this endeavor remained a TBD.